


From St. Bart's to... St. Bart's?

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two sweet, lonely, awkward people find each other (and go on a little mystery adventure).</p>
            </blockquote>





	From St. Bart's to... St. Bart's?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/gifts).



* * *

  
The phone on the morgue wall rang. Startled, Molly dropped the file she was holding, cursed herself for her foolishness, then scurried over to answer.  
“Yes? Yes. Oh! Okay, let him in. Th – yeah – thanks. Okay.” But security had already hung up. “Okay....” Molly turned and scanned the morgue for empty space to pile boxes. Yeah, no, better to put them in her office.  
She stood in the hallway until a man backed through the swinging doors pulling a handtruck stacked with cardboard boxes. He swung around, doing an awful imitation of a three point turn, catching one door on the lip of the truck, almost dislodging the top box.  
“Oh, _crumpets!_ ” he cried. He caught the box with one arm, the door with his foot, while holding the handtruck at a precarious angle.  
Molly ran down the hall as fast as she could in her sensible shoes, pens falling out of her lab coat pocket. She watched them skitter away in dismay. “Here! Let me!” She shoved the tipping box back on the stack and grabbed the door. The man gratefully rested the truck upright.  
“Sorry. Thanks.” He looked at Molly and his eyes went a bit wide. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.  
Molly's eyes went wide, too. She didn't gulp down her surprise, but her heart began to pound. He looked like – he was the spitting image of – well, the ginger version of – and shorter – but still striking – “I like gingers,” she uttered, followed quickly by a horrified, “No! I didn't – _god!_ ” She covered her face with her hands.  
The man did a thing with his throat that sounded like a car that wouldn't start, and held out his hands as if to help in some way. “I like gingers, too!” he offered. “I mean, you're not a ginger, obviously, and I'm not saying that I like _myself_ , although I do, mostly, just that you've got _brown_ , which is nice, the hair and the eyes, you know.”  
They stood and looked at each other with matching cringes on their faces.  
The man finally cleared his throat and said, “I'm looking for Molly Hooper?”  
“I know.”  
“You know?”  
“I'm Molly Hooper. Those are for me.” She held out her hand. “Dr. Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you.”  
The man assiduously wiped his palm on his thigh and grasped her hand gently. “Captain Martin Crieff. I mean, just Martin Crieff. Today. I'm not a captain today.”  
Molly smiled softly, mouth quivering. “Aren't you? What kind of captain?”  
Martin grimaced slightly. “Sorry. It sounds very boastful. I didn't mean to brag. I'm a – I'm an airline pilot.”  
“Oh,” Molly replied cheerily. “Only, I know a man who is an Army Captain and a doctor, so....” She shrugged. “Lots of types of captains. You could have been a pirate captain, when you aren't delivering things.”  
“Except I don't like birds.” Molly tilted her head. “I mean, not like women are birds. I like women. A lot. Not too much, because that would be.... And I don't _call_ them birds. I – I meant real birds. I couldn't have a parrot. So I couldn't be a pirate captain, you see.”  
Molly tittered. “I understand.”  
“Oh god, that was awful,” Martin muttered. “Here.” He dug in his back pocket and drew out a short stack of cards. “Here. Icarus Removals. That's me.” He pointed. “Martin Crieff: Man with a Van. And most other days, I'm here.” He pulled a card from the bottom of the stack. “Captain for MJN Air. For all your chartered flying needs. Do you find you need many chartered jets in the, um, morgue business?”  
“Hardly any.” Molly smiled over the cards in her hand. “Do you fly many bodies?” Her laugh sounded unnatural to her ears.  
“Sometimes. We had a passenger die mid-flight, so that counts, I think.”  
“That's terrible.”  
“Well, he wasn't a very nice man. He made... people cry.”  
“Still. Sad.”  
“Yes.”  
They stood there fidgeting for a few moments.  
“So!” Martin gave his hands a clap and a rub. “Where are these going?”  
“Just in my office. Through here.” She led him to her door, and held it open. He pushed through without incident.  
The office was small and full of cabinets. There was one empty corner and she pointed at it.  
“Is this the final destination for these boxes? I see they are marked 'kitchen' and 'library'. Is there another room for them? I'll take them there, of course. Maybe the hospital kitchen?”  
“No. That's for my flat. I lost my mum recently. These are hers.”  
“Oh, I am sorry.”  
“Thanks. Yes, she lived, well you know where she lived, don't you, and my cousin helped pack up some things for me. I'm always here, so I had them delivered here.”  
Martin stared at the boxes. “I don't know what I'd do if I lost my mum. I lost my dad a few years back.” He sighed heavily.  
“I lost my dad, too.” Instead of reaching for Martin's hand and squeezing it, she picked up a clipboard and hugged it to her chest. “It's hard, isn't it?”  
Martin nibbled on the inside of his lip and nodded. “Um, so how are you going to get these back to your place? That kitchen box feels like your mum collected cast iron. And the books are heavy.”  
“I thought I'd do it in bits. That would be manageable.”  
“Well, at Icarus Removals we pride ourselves on doing a job right, and seeing it through to the end. I would be happy to put these back on the truck and take them to your flat instead.”  
“That's very nice of you, but I couldn't impose. I don't get off work for a couple of hours. I'll manage, really.”  
“That's fine! Truly, you'd be doing me a favor. I have a hundred mile trip back west, and the traffic is filthy right now. I could wait for it to die down, deliver the boxes for you properly, and then go home.”  
Molly considered it. The boxes really were heavy. She took in Martin's leanness. “Well, I'd want to buy you dinner to say thank you. To pay you for the extra time. Would that be all right?”  
“Oh! Um. Dinner?” He ran a hand over his shirt and jeans, his dusty jacket. Color rose fetchingly to his cheeks. He ran a hand through his curls.  
“At a pub near mine. What you're wearing is fine.”  
His throat made that funny noise again. “Well, yes. Thank you.”  
Molly brightened. “I'll call down to the dock, tell them you can leave your van there. You can wait in the cafeteria as long as you like. No one will bother you. I'll be down as soon as I can.” She waved her clipboard in a sort of vague explanation. “The coffee is bad, but the tea is all right.”  
“Thank you, Dr. Hooper.”  
“Molly.”  
Martin nodded and backed out of her office with the boxes. Molly hugged the clipboard again, and tucked her hair behind her ear as she watched Martin walk away.

At dinner, Molly ordered too much food, and made Martin take it home with him. She recognized what a starving student looked like, even though Martin was no longer a student. But something was keeping him working a terrible second job and keeping that edge of hunger on him. She let the nurturing side have its way for the evening; she could rein it in after he'd gone.  
Why did she always want to feed up the skinny ones? Sherlock seemed to exist on air and crisps, and wouldn't stand to let her mother him, anyway. That was John's job. And Jim... well, she wouldn't think about Jim. Something told her that Martin was nothing at all like Jim.  
When they parted at the pub, Molly thanked him again. Martin blushed, but rallied.  
“Well, if you feel so indebted, despite having paid me with a lovely dinner, then you can always call me the next time you need a pilot.” He smiled warmly and handed her a few more business cards. “I should have given you more than one each, anyway. Good practice to give out three per person: one for them to keep and two to give away.”  
“Is that so?”  
“Yes. Read it in a book.”  
That awkward moment had arrived. She wanted to kiss him very badly. He had that same mouth, Sherlock's mouth. She had already imagined kissing those lips a million times, just not on this man. She was ready.  
Neither was making any move to leave.  
“Well,” he said finally, leaning in, “thank you, Molly Hooper.” He kissed her softly on the cheek, and retreated.  
She watched as he climbed up into his van, started it up and pulled away with a little wave and a crooked smile.  
The breath rushed out of her as she deflated, seeing him leave.  
What to do? Having him deliver more boxes was more likely than needing to charter a jet.

* * *

  
Sherlock peered into one of her microscopes while John puttered about, waiting, Molly largely ignored as part of the furniture, as per usual. She was just happy to be in the company of the two. It was like having friends.  
John's phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket and stared at the screen.  
“Your brother.”  
“Ignore him.”  
John tsked and answered. “Mycroft! What can I do for you?”  
Molly tried not to eavesdrop, but heard titillating words like 'body' and 'inconsistent' coming from the phone. That was her line, wasn't it? It was natural she'd be curious.  
“What did he want?” Sherlock droned.  
John cleared his throat. “Actually, he has what sounds like a fascinating case. Up in the Shetlands. A body in a bog.”  
“Ohhh, I bet you're just _drooling_ over that as a title for one of your little posts.”  
John pursed his mouth. “Yes. A little. However, it sounds like your kind of fun. A bit of an adventure.”  
“Missing Dartmoor already?”  
“Well, who could blame me? Watching you flip up your collar against the nip in the air, or posing with your nose to the wind on an outcropping of rock.... It's payment enough, most times, really.” Sherlock looked up long enough to give him a baleful glare. “But, in this instance, Mycroft mentioned there might be actual remuneration for our efforts. We could use a paying job, you know.”  
“How – ” Molly began, and the two turned to look at her, “Um, how are you planning on getting there?” 

* * *

  
The driver took Molly's overnight bag from her. He helped her into the back where John and Sherlock sat.  
“Morning, Molly.”  
“Molly.”  
She beamed at the two. She was going on a case! She'd be part of their adventures, maybe even make it into one of John's posts.  
It was all thanks to John. She'd told them about Martin and MJN Air, and John, perceptive man he was, noticed the far-away look on her face and _pried_. No one ever bothered to pry into her affairs. John teased her lovingly like a brother might. _Who is he? Is he nice? Have you dated?_ Even her mum had given up asking, so the attention, the _assumption_ that she might have a boyfriend, it was nice.  
Then John got a gleam in his eye, and reminded her that she was a forensic pathologist, and they were dealing with a body, and if Mycroft was footing the bill for their transport and lodgings, then Molly absolutely must come. She didn't even have to deal with her boss – John got Mycroft's people to get her the time off. With pay.  
And so, she was in a black limousine, dressed in her only skirt suit and modest heels, hair twisted up and pinned, on her way to London City Airport to see Martin again. Oh, and to look at a body. 

* * *

  
The car pulled up on the tarmac, bypassing the terminal completely. They stopped next to an old dame of a craft. Martin had said 'Gerti' was a grand old girl, but this was practically a vintage jet. A young man in a kind of uniform stood smiling and chipper at the base of the open doorway and steps.  
Molly shakily reapplied her lipstick, clicked her compact shut and dropped them in her purse. She caught John looking at her fondly.  
“He sounds like a good bloke, your Martin.”  
“Ohh, he's not mine. We only had one dinner!” She laughed nervously. “But he is lovely. All he talked about was flying, and his crew. They sounded like his family.”  
“I'm sure they are.”  
“Does he even know I'm coming? I haven't called him. I don't know why I didn't call him.”  
“I bet Mycroft's assistant mentioned you when they booked. She's very thorough.”  
“Will you two please be quiet? Nattering on and on. Will he? Won't he? God, romance is dull.”  
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John scolded. “We haven't even gotten to the scene yet. We're hardly disrupting any deductions, are we? Try to be polite if you can't actually be happy for her.”  
Sherlock looked at Molly directly. “Sorry.” He fell back against the seat and turned toward the window. Molly stole a glance, soaking in his features. She turned away when it approached painful. Suddenly, she was nervous for John to see Martin, and why she'd been attracted. Sherlock would never notice, but anyone else who knew her would see it. Why was love so humiliating?  
On some signal, the driver exited and headed to the door to assist them out. John took her luggage for her, which was lovely. This felt more and more like a fairy tale as the morning wore on.  
The attendant powered up his permanent smile and beckoned her forward, speaking in a practiced, breezy tone, in phrases that managed to sound entirely interrogative.  
“Good morning, madam, I am Arthur. I hope myself may be of service to yourself today.” He assisted her up the first step, she managed the rest. “Hello sir, I am Arthur, I will be endeavoring to help your embarcation as you embark upon your journey today. Please mind your step as you are barking.”  
“Who you calling 'barking', mate?” John joked. The poor man took it badly.  
“Oh! No! I'm sorry! You're not barking. Well, you're--”  
“Sorry, Arthur, is it?” John clapped him on the arm. “Just kidding.”  
“I'm so sorry. It's just – I'm _so_ nervous. All these strange people in suits inspecting Gerti, and they won't tell me where we're going. Or at least Skip won't tell me, because I can't keep a secret, he says. 'Need to know' he says.”  
“I don't suppose we could have this conversation _in the air?_ ” Sherlock stood behind John with a hand on the rail.  
John smiled apologetically, but took the opportunity of the interruption to pass by Arthur and climb in. Sherlock didn't give Arthur a chance to greet him, just ducked into the doorway in a swish of coat.  
Arthur pulled up the steps and secured the door as they decided on seats. He scrambled to put their bags in the overheads and settle them in. Molly remained standing, nervous, looking for Martin.  
“Excuse me? Is Captain Crieff on board already?”  
There was a fumbling noise and a bang, muffled curses and then a moment of silence before the flight deck door opened crisply and Martin stepped out. Molly gasped quietly to herself, taking in the uniform and his proud bearing. Martin swept the hat off his head and tucked it under his arm, walking the distance through the galley and down the aisle to greet her.  
“Hello, Molly,” he said in a low voice.  
It took Molly a few tries before her response came out. “Martin! You look so....”  
“Ho-lee smoke,” John whispered beside her.  
Molly shot him a quelling glance, and John stifled himself. He'd noticed the resemblance, apparently. A wry smile twisted his mouth as he looked his fill between Sherlock and the captain.  
A distinguished older man exited the cabin and approached her, hand out.  
“First Officer Douglas Richardson, at your disposal, madame,” he purred mellifluously. He enclosed her slim hand in both of his. “And you must be the lovely Dr. Hooper we've heard so much about.”  
“ _Douglas!_ ” Martin hissed through his teeth.  
“Now, now, Martin. Fear not.” He smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “Only good things have we heard. Incessantly.” He released her. “Martin, why don't you show Dr. Hooper the flight deck, while I fill Arthur in on the itinerary?”  
“Fine. Good.” Martin nodded and led the way to the cabin. Molly followed, thrilled.  
The flight deck was tight. She boggled at all the levers and buttons and lights. She wrinkled her nose at the faint smell of gin and cheese, but overall the flight deck was everything she'd ever imagined or seen in movies.  
The two ended up almost face to face behind the chairs. Martin fumbled with his hat, until he laid it down, then he fumbled with the shiny buttons on his coat.  
“It's so good to see you again, Molly. Um.”  
“I know. Me too. I don't know why I didn't – I wish I'd – ”  
“Called you, yes.”  
“I enjoyed our dinner so much, but you live so far away....”  
“And I've been so busy.”  
Their faces were only inches apart, sharing the very air between them.  
Martin dipped his head. “I'd like – ”  
“Shetland!!” Arthur shouted from the galley. “Where the _PONIES_ are??”  
They could hear Douglas shushing him, but the moment was gone.  
“I suppose I ought to get you buckled in your seat. We have a steep ascent ahead of us. London regs, and all that.”  
Molly nodded and shuffled back out past the bouncing attendant who looked like he'd just won the lottery.

“This is Golf Tango India requesting final clearance for takeoff,” Martin said, adjusting his headset.  
“ _Golf Tango India, you are cleared for takeoff on two-seven._ ”  
“Thank you, tower.”  
As Gerti accelerated down the short runway, Douglas took a moment to smile at the captain. “She's lovely, Martin.”  
Martin's mouth stretched into a wide grin. “I know.” He pulled them into the sharp climb above the Thames, and turned north.

* * *

  
A thousand miles later, they landed without incident at Sumburgh Airport. Courtesy cars transported them quickly to the Sumburgh Hotel overlooking the cliffs and the North Sea. The British government was paying to keep the plane and its crew on standby for the duration of the investigation. Carolyn Knapp-Shappey had practically punched her fist in the air when she took the booking. Stand-by was the holy grail for charter companies, and the more money her dilapidated aircraft could earn while not actually flying, the better.  
They'd been booked into lovely, bright rooms in the large, stone hotel. Sherlock and John shared one, as did Arthur and Douglas (to Arthur's delight and Douglas's chagrin). Martin got his own single, and Molly got... well she thought it must have been a mistake. She got the suite with the four-poster bed and the magnificent view. Fairy tale. She whispered a thank you to Mycroft Holmes's assistant and pressed her forehead against the glass, watching the autumn winds whipping at the waves.  
They regrouped in the dining room over coffees, having changed into civvies. Molly regretted having to put on her workaday clothes again, but her suit wasn't practical. She regretted the loss of Martin's fancy hat and shiny buttons, too.  
Sherlock fiddled with his phone, obviously getting updates on the scene. He was eager to get going.  
Arthur handed Molly a cup and saucer as she walked into the room.  
“Here you are, Dr. Hooper.”  
“Oh. Thank you. Call me Molly, please.” She slung her purse on her shoulder as she took the china carefully. “You don't have to serve me on the ground, you know.” She laughed at her kind-of joke.  
“It's fine. I love to help. Besides, I don't know what else to do with myself. Skip says I'm not supposed to bother the ponies. They're wild,” he added authoritatively.  
“Well,” Molly looked to John, “could they come with us? To the site? Anyone who wanted to, I mean? I'm sure it will be dull, but it's better than sitting around looking at puffins?  
“Puffins??” Arthur brightened. “I'm sure they're wild, too, but they're called _puffins_. Surely they're not that wild. They have 'puff' in their name.”  
Douglas shook his head. “He's going to end up going over a cliff before we leave, I just know it.”  
“You're all welcome to come watch,” John announced. “Just obey anything the SOCO team tell you to do. Don't touch anything. Walk on whatever path materials they've laid down, if you even get that close. It'll be wet and boggy, probably you will all stay well back in any case. You won't be any bother. Come. Maybe you'll see Sherlock in action. It's quite something.”

In the hired van, Douglas swiveled around and looked at the detective and his blogger. “I've heard of you two, you know. The Reichenbach Hero, right here in the car. Well done, you.”  
Sherlock pressed his mouth shut and nodded. “Thanks.”  
John brightened. “Yes, I'm a bit concerned about his notoriety in the press lately. But it's good that Sherlock is getting some recognition. We can use the clients.”  
“Oh! I didn't recognize you without the hat!” Arthur said. “Why didn't you bring it? It's windy.”  
Sherlock crossed his arms, hunkered down into his coat and replied tightly, “It wasn't my hat.” 

Sherlock bolted out of the van the moment the door slid open, storming down the long path to the site. His griping and yelling started almost immediately when he saw the body had been extracted from the peat bog without waiting for him to inspect it _in situ._ He stalked toward the white, open tent with a dark, rigid form on the table. Beside it, there was a closed white tent covering the burial site, partially covering the nose of a tractor.  
The rest of the crew hovered near the van, waiting for John's direction, hearing snippets of Sherlock's invective torn away by the wind.  
“Actually, Molly you come with me. The rest of you stay by the vehicle.”  
“That's all right,” said Martin queasily, looking at the tractor. “I don't know if I want to see a body. Not outside of a museum, anyway.”  
The others murmured their agreement. Arthur was already scoping out the plain for ponies. Their driver walked away for a smoke. 

Suited up, Molly, John, and Sherlock assessed the man on the table. He was missing a leg. The small peat harvester had snagged on him and heaved him up to the surface. The farmer had called it in, but even he knew something was off. Besides the leg.  
“This is not a bog body,” Molly said.  
“Too fresh,” agreed John.  
“Obviously. And they didn't do appendectomies in the Bronze Age.” Sherlock pointed out the small scar on the underside of the curled torso.  
“So, Molly, earn your keep.” John smiled brightly, and Molly returned it.  
“I did a bit of research before we left.”  
“Wise.”  
“Yes. Well, he's naked. Bog bodies are usually found clothed in some way. If they'd been buried ritually, or if they'd just died on the spot and sunk, either way, they'd have clothes. Someone stripped him of identifying items, didn't they?” John nodded. “He's tea-colored, not having to do with the salinity of the bog, just his natural skin tone. He hasn't been here long. Help me roll him, John?” They tipped the body. “Yes, looks like a blow to the occiput. That's hard to fracture, so a strong person with a heavy object. But, also bruising to the throat. Looks like a struggle, strangulation at some point. So, yes, murder.”  
“And then buried out here in the peat. Fairly recently, I'd say.”  
“Days, at most. It's pure coincidence that he was ever found.” Molly settled the man's twisted body back on the table. “He would have ended up a mummy. I'd want him on a table to give more detail.”  
Sherlock shook his head. “That's not going to happen. We're only here because my brother is involved. Someone will take possession of the body. This isn't even a local SOCO team. It's one of his. He won't give me any information, so I'll have to discover it for myself.” 

The MJN crew gathered back at the van as they watched Sherlock and the others trudge back to the road.  
“So? Figure out who he was?” Martin called.  
“It's a mystery!” John said, as they got within easy speaking distance. “Not much to go on yet.”  
“Did you discover anything?” Douglas asked.  
“He was murdered,” Molly said, and the others nodded in sympathy. “No identifying items. His features and skin tone suggest North African or Middle Eastern descent. His – ”  
Martin gasped and looked up. “I know who he is,” he said slowly. All eyes turned to him, especially Sherlock's. “Well, not by name. Probably. But you said Middle East. I noticed a jet at the airport when we arrived, in the hangar. It's a Bombardier P700. Two engine, long range, seats six. Brand new. Expensive as hell. Only a few out so far. I saw one in Dubai a few months ago. The same one, I think. If it's owned by the man I think it is, he's a Saudi prince.”  
John whistled under his breath, everyone else stood in stunned silence.  
“That – was – BRILLIANT!” Arthur crowed. “Skip! You are _just_ like Miss Marple! I'm telling you!”  
Sherlock scowled, collating the new information. “There's an oil connection. There is oil up here, oil down there. Perhaps that's enough international intrigue to get my brother involved. Ohh, Mycroft will be absolutely apoplectic when I tell him! Excellent!” He clapped Martin on the arm without even looking as he whipped out his phone and began texting with impish glee.  
For her part, Molly was almost swooning, swaying on the spot looking up at her ersatz Sherlock, but one who actually liked her and knew she existed.  
Martin stood with a wide smile on his face, accepting slaps on the back from Douglas and handshakes from Arthur. He turned to Molly fully as she drew closer. Molly surged forward, wrapping one arm around Martin's neck, the other carding fingers through his hair, and mashed their mouths together. Martin squeaked, then cinched his arms around her waist, lifting her to her tippy toes. They kissed for long moments before they drew apart.  
Martin set her gently back to earth, eyes locked on each other. He pushed a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear, and she did the same to a ginger curl.  
She sighed happily. “I never want to stop kissing you. Never, ever, ever, ever,” she whispered. “You're brilliant.”  
“So are you.”  
The others looked away as the show recommenced. Sherlock snickered to himself, engrossed in his phone and missed the entire scene

* * *

  
They celebrated at the hotel bar that night. They all indulged in drink and lively conversation. Well. Douglas drank apple juice in a rocks glass. Arthur indulged in pineapple juice. Sherlock indulged in bouts of spite against his brother with a whiskey back. So really it was mostly John with his pints, sitting with the happy new couple who shared some red wine. They managed to get pleasantly squiffy together, even the non-drunk ones.  
Martin got up to get another round, leaving Molly and John watching him saunter to the bar.  
“It's really so odd, isn't it? That you found him?”  
Molly frowned playfully. “This one's mine, John Watson, You've got one already. This one's mine.”  
“Yes, but yours is like a lovely golden retriever. Mine's like a starving junkyard dog who'd bite your head off soon as look at you. And he doesn't want petting.”  
Molly sniggered. “Oh, I'm going to pet mine. A lot.” She nodded sagely. “Like, 'till all his fur falls off.”  
“Yeah, okay.” Martin came back with the drinks and set them down. “Martin, you might want to finish these upstairs. Our Miss Hooper is a bit worse for wear.”  
“Tipsy!” She shot to her feet and grabbed Martin's hand. “Let's go. I have four posters on my bed and only one night to use them.”  
“What does that even mean?” Martin said, forehead wrinkling.  
“It means....” She took his mouth in another fierce kiss, then pulled him to the door. Martin waved good night as John gave him a thumbs up.  
Douglas and Arthur sat, watching them leave.  
“Ah, young love. Couldn't have happened to a nicer couple.” Douglas raised his glass. “To Martin and Molly. Even their names sound adorable together.”  
“Hear, hear,” Arthur concurred.  
John slid an abandoned glass of wine toward Arthur. “Would you like one?”  
“I don't know if I should. It's not like peach schnapps is it? Because I'm not supposed to have peach schnapps, ever again. Never ever.”  
“Uhh,” John looked to Douglas who knew better the apparent dangers of Arthur and alcohol.  
“Try it. What could _possibly_ go wrong?” Douglas looked around the empty room, Sherlock pacing before the windows, scrolling through his phone, and sighed. “I dare say, Captain Watson, that you and I have some stories to tell, do we not? About places more exciting than the Shetlands?”  
John smiled. “That we do.” Three Continents Watson pulled on his pint, warming up for a long, pleasant evening of one-upmanship in a hotel bar by the sea. He would see if they couldn't curl Arthur's hair with their exploits. 

* * *

  
Martin hung up his cell phone and slid back down in bed. He stretched out happily. There was so much more space here in Molly's cozy flat, he hated having to return to the narrow cot in his attic room.  
He was the luckiest man on Earth. Because he'd met Molly, because she knew Sherlock, because Sherlock's brother was, apparently, in the British government, and because Martin had an obsession with aeroplanes, a mystery had been solved. The victim's family were multi-billionaires, who had showered gifts of gratitude on those who had helped recover the body of their loved one and brought his burly murderer to justice.  
Now Gerti could afford a refit, now MJN had been suddenly offered more government contract flights out of – surprise, surprise – London. John and Sherlock had been very well paid, as had Molly, but Martin and his crew had been tipped more money than Martin had made in his entire working life, with a zero added to the end of that. Carolyn could afford to pay him, and Martin could afford to have a life and a love. He had a ring secured next to his I.D. and his pilot's license in his flight bag, just waiting for the right moment.  
Molly came into the bedroom carrying two mugs of coffee. She kicked the door shut with her heel.  
“Was that work?” She handed Martin a mug, and slid into bed herself.  
Martin slurped until the danger of spillage was lessened. “Yes. I have some good news.” He accepted a peck on the mouth (Molly _really_ loved his mouth). “Carolyn says the overhaul is almost done. We'll be ready for a long flight to settle her in. I suggested the Caribbean. And I want you to come. In fact, you have to.”  
“Oh, that's lovely! Why do I have to go, though? I mean, I want to.”  
“Because,” he said, setting his coffee on the table, and taking hers from her as well, “I picked the destination with you in mind. St. Bart's.”  
“That's sweet!”  
“Because that's where we met.”  
“Yes, I get it.” She smiled and kissed him softly, settling down on top of him. He caressed her hips as she drew back with a tug on his bottom lip. “Thank you, Martin. I can't believe how lucky I am.” She looked at his face, his goofy face, like he was a beautiful thing. “I've been waiting for you for a long time.” She pressed her lips to his neck, making him squirm.  
“I'm the lucky one,” he murmured.  
“Tell me again,” Molly asked into his skin, “tell me the story of the bird strike. How you,” kiss, nip, “landed on one engine in a crosswind. Use the technical talk.”  
Ohh, it was going to be one of _those_ mornings. He was definitely the lucky one. 

* * *

  



End file.
